by Braulio Fonseca
When I was young, I dreamt of being a Superhero with incredible super powers, to shoot fire from my eyes, to teleport, to see through walls, superhuman strength, and invisibility, hell even today as an adult I find myself imagining what it would be like to manifest unfathomable energy from within my being, raise my hands to the air and propel myself into the sky, flying at Mach 5 across the universe.
I remember a time as small boy I was standing at my bus stop waiting for my ride to school. While I waited, I felt the urge and completely believed it to possible and leapt into the air, grabbed my feet with both hands and took flight. Seconds later I crashed to the earth smashing both knees against the ground. Pain shot through my body, and I began to cry. The physical pain was enough but the emotional pain I endured realizing I wasn’t actually able to fly was 10-fold.
I am no hero, nor do I possess superpowers but in my life, I have given witness to fearless heroics and powerful acts in humanity that have inspired me to be a better man and attempt to inspire others as well. On July 27th, 2019, I made an attempt to be a Hero.
The San Francisco air was cool and matched the water temperature of the bay…56 degrees. Fog loomed and the sky was a muted grey. At approximately 9:30 am PST, off the shore of the infamous prison Alcatraz, I dove from the side of a tour boat that was carrying 850 swimmers and entered the bay without a wetsuit. As a two-time Cancer survivor I had used swimming as a way to not only recover but remember who I was before the fight but even though I had overcame by battle I still suffered and dealt with the misery of survivors guilt as I was quite aware of those who were not as fortunate as I.
My body was covered in the names of 150 Cancer Warriors. People from across the country had been reaching out and sharing names of loved ones passed or loved ones thick in the fight of Cancer treatments, some of the names were proud survivors and some who had just been diagnosed…this was going to be my tribute, this was my way of remembering, my way of giving back, my way of surviving, my way of living.
I was the first to enter the water and thus paddled idly for 15 minutes waiting for the entirety of competitors to enter the water. As time ticked on my body temperature began to drop and by the time the race had begun, I was already cold to the core, teeth chattering, body quivering. In the realm of cold water swimming, some say “The moment you begin to shiver you’ve got to get out of the water—its over.” A horn sounded, signaling the start, and I and a thunderous mob of nervous and excited athletes exploded forward toward the shores of San Fran. Bodies were everywhere and limbs and water seem to be flung about like shrapnel. Each swim stroke forward was cut short due to a body in the front, side, and rear, each breath to the side was obstructed by another swimmers splash or arm entering the water near the face.
For a moment a female swimmer was directly to my side, and we were in perfect unison – stroke for stroke, breath for breath. I remember watching her and feeling a moment of ease and thought to myself “I can do this,” and I felt a sense of comfort being beside her. A smile showed itself on my face and I felt confident. It was exactly at this moment of comfort that a shocking jolt brought me back to an icy, chaotic reality. A hand grabbed my right ankle and jerked me back down into the water in mid breath, mid stroke. The fear alone was enough to put my body in a new sense of angst. When I breached the surface my counterpart, whom I had felt my comfort, was lost in the progressive wall of splashing water thrust by the feet of 850 swimmers kicking in a fury.
I had to find a new mantra and a new way for me to stay “in the zone” so one by one I began to say the warrior’s names on my back – “Kelly Klein, Fred Burger, Vincent Liberdo, Michelle Boyd De Jong. Jeanette Duncan, Bradford Kelly, Deborah Rosser.” I remembered those who had passed away after their battles and those who were still in a hospital bed, still going through chemo and radiation, still wondering how much more than can take before it stops, still wondering what their lives would be like when it was all over, still wondering if they’d make it at all. I thought of the messages I had received over the past few months and the stories people had shared with me as they gave me the names of those they loved. Name by name, soul by soul, stroke by stroke, I continued.
As I neared the mile mark of the 1.5-mile swim I noticed a change in my awareness and thoughts. My vision began to alter and with each breath, as I looked out at the bay, my world began to violently swirl to a blur. I couldn’t feel my arms as they dug into the sea and my legs seemed to swell and anchor me backwards. I barely had enough time in this moment to even realize what was happening – I was going hyperthermic and my body was going into shock. In a delirious state I continued to swim forward until a man who was completely lost in the water cut in front of me, forcing me to stop in my tracks so as not to collide. It was this action that set off a chain of events that would prove crippling.
My abdomen began to contract, and my air was constricted. The sound that came from mouth was a deafening moan of pain and anguish. From my toes to my head, my body constricted inward. It was as if I was giving birth, my body experiencing full contractions. I looked out into the mess of water, bodies and kayaks and it all began to vanish before my eyes and in that, the final act of my will was the raising of my right arm toward the east as everything went black.
My body temperature was 79 degrees when I was pulled from the San Francisco Bay. My eyes pierced shut in pain, my mouth foaming and slurring as my face trembled uncontrollably—my body convulsing and contracting in hysteria. The paramedics later said that it was everything I could do to murmur my own name just one time during the wailing and writhing of shock.
My eyes didn’t open again until I was in the ER and being warmed by a plastic suit filled with hot air, and as they did, tears filled them and overflowed down my cheeks in complete and utter sadness, just as they had when I was a boy crashing to my knees in my attempt to fly. I had failed I thought, I had let down, not only myself, but 100s of amazing human beings and souls who deserved better than what I had given them. I was distraught and humiliated. My immediate reaction was that it would have been better to die in the water than to be where I was now…in a hospital bed…defeated.
It took nearly a month for me to wrap my head around that day, that race, that moment I raised my hand, and the bay swallowed me whole. Many nights staring out into the stars asking for the reason, the answer, and the direction in which I should turn. In the end it was the abundance of support that filled my heart with love and allowed me to see just how powerful this event was to so many people. Their loved ones were in living action as they swam with me across the bay, and what better way to be honored. And it was in that I found my purpose and my superpower.
I said I wanted to suffer, to do something I might not be able to complete yet my head lowered as I accomplished exactly what I had set out to do…suffer as way to pay tribute to the suffering. I see now that a gold medal or first place finish may not have served me as well as the reality I now understand. If suffering is what I seek than I cannot wane in the wake of the suck.
The very instant I was released from the hospital I immediately signed up for next year’s Alcatraz swim, the NON-WETSUIT category again. I will swim this race every year for the rest of my life and while I learned valuable lessons from this first attempt, I will not be dismayed if every year I am pulled from the water in pain. I am committed to the suffering and what better way to suffer than to fail and keep going. I am not a Superhero who can leap buildings in single bound but If I was, I see now that suffering would be my superpower and a way for me to die proud.
